Kirkwall Port
by SmellApple
Summary: Modern AU. Language, Sexuality. It was foretold that with the dawning of the Dragon Age, change would come on the wings of a great beast. The people of Thedas collectively ignored the warning. Change indeed came. Children with unusual traits and unexplainable disasters centered around frightened people were only the beginnings.
1. Dawning of the Dragon Age

Modern semi-AU setting.

I would like to provide a few warnings. I have never written anything before, let alone posted anything. This, essentially, an experiment. Yes, world events information is based loosely off of Shadow Run. *sunglasses* deal with it. Also,I have NO clue where this is going. I am pretty much going chapter by chapter and enjoying the ride. lol. Though, I intend to follow the game progression in my own setting. You will be just as surprised as I. Please, by all means, comment, make suggestions, critique. I bow my head to the more experienced.

Intended update schedule is biweekly. I have far too much arting to do in addition. Lol

Dragon Age II  
Mature, Sexual content and Language  
M/M, M/F, hell, assume eventual F/F. Why not?

KIRKWALL PORT

ONE

Dragon 9:01 was quite the year. The previous statement was also quite the understatement. The final days of the Blessed Age were the harbingers of change. New Year's Eve Blessed 8:99, the world laughed at the prospect of apocalypse. The clock rolled over to midnight. Lovers new and old embraced with arms, lips, tongues, and legs. Fluted glasses clinked together then were upended in a synchronized dance. The entirety of Thedas celebrated in drunken, debauched revery. The chantry was laughed at again; an assumed poor attempt at distraction from their recent legal allegations. Andraste was still a dated bitch whose legitimacy had long ago been questioned. The world had laughed. Apocalypse dodged, the sun would rise again.

Aristide Amell huffed irritably. What ever happened to his sweet little Leandra? When had she become rebellious? He glanced over to her. She was understandably angry as well. She was supposed to be at the De Launcet for a chaperoned party. She was a very young teen and had been given a bit more slack. Aristide tightened his grip on the sun cracked steering wheel. She was not where she was supposed to be.

He drove over at half past midnight to take his little girl home. After waiting outside for twenty minutes, he began to fret in earnest. With a stomach twisting in unnatural knots, he plunged out of the old Ford pickup and slammed the door. He walked across the small street and approached the de Lancet home. Sighing back his nerves, he rang the doorbell once. There was no answer. He rung the bell again, pausing only a brief moment before ringing again. He bit his lip, tapped his food, checked his watch, anything to help him expend the adrenaline that rapidly built up.

The porch light flicked on seconds before the heavy white door cracked open. "Ari" The voice greeted before closing to allow the chain to be dropped off and re-opend fully. The light brown haired man stood in the doorway, his etiquette quickly struck away by simple familiarity. "Bonne année! To what do we owe your visit?"

Aristide paused, his head turning slightly in confusion, he continued slowly, "I'm just here to pick up Leandra."

"Leandra? No, no, no!" The gentleman laughed. "Do you not remember, you told her to get a ride home from one of her friends. I recall her mentioning that you didn't want her out quite so late." The man's hand gripped the edge of the door tightly as he glanced upwards, recalling what has been told to him.

Leandra's father's back straightened, "I instructed her to remain here where I would pick her up." Unconsciously, he rotated his metal banded watch around his wrist.

The man paused, taking a deep intake of breath. Taken aback, the de Lancet replied, "Oh, oh my. I'm sorry, she had told me that she was to-"

"Yes, I gathered that." Aristide interrupted. He dropped his head down quickly, clearing his throat. "Sorry, do you know who took her?

De Lancet gave a small smile, accepting the apology. "The Hawke boy took her. Malcolm Hawke, I believe."

Amell grunted and cracked his hand closed as he quickly turned. Half-way down the small red brick path, he heard his friend's voice call out, "Please, Ari, call me when you find her. Please."

Aristide turned to regard his friend and gave a short nod.

He kissed her shoulder tenderly. His lips dabbing at her skin as he worked his way up her neck, his black hair trailing along, tickling her. His lips smiled as he neared her jaw line and he felt her hands slide down his back. He hummed appreciatively and her legs move a bit farther apart, welcoming his denim clad hips. He huffed a hot breath of a laugh as his hands slid down and fumbled with her jeans button.

Leandra took a short, heated breath. Her eyes losing focus briefly. This was happening to her. All those days looking over to the handsome boy over her shoulder, all the days sending shy glances, all the days of trusting friendship were leading them to this. The morning of the first day of the Dragon Age, she will allow Malcolm to touch her as no ones else has before. Her heart raced with anticipation; her mind giddy with excitement.

Malcolm unfastened her pants button and smiled triumphantly. He slid his hand down the front of the pink lace before him as his other reached to the end table next to the plush sofa. He pressed his rapidly drying lips against Leandra's glittered lower lip and tapped the table with his fingertips, glancing up briefly as he groped for the small, foil wrapped package. Grinning, his brown eyes shined as his fingers closed around the wrapped prophylactic. He glanced down to her face once again, smiling wide. He gave a low laugh and slipped the small package on the flat of her belly, tucking a corner securely under her panties.

Her neck craned down looking to the object that was placed onto her lower stomach. Her blush deepened red as her eyes widened. "Oh shit," she giggled out nervously.

Malcolm drew himself up from his place between her thighs and grasped the bottom of his t-shit, drawing it up and over his head.

He stopped mid action, his hands hidden in the red fabric, his chest partially exposed as a loud slamming rapped on the front door. His brown eyes shot open wide as he threw the end of his shirt down and leaped over the top of the sofa. He sharply gestured to Leandra to keep calm flipped flipped on a nearby lamp then slowly unlocked the worn, brassy dead bolt.

He took a deep breath and turned to doorknob. After a second breath, and a moment to contrive a semi-plausible story, he threw open the door. The sight that greeted him cause his mouth to go dry. A very furious Mister Amell glowered down at him.

Malcolm panicked, his careful planning of a few seconds prematurely fraying. "She, Lea... left home... I mean, de Lawn," his tongue flapped around, apparently also terrorized at the sight. Amell's eyes narrowed. His arms slowly crossing his chest of his sweat soaked dress shirt.

Malcolm Hawke did not bother questioning if he was going to die; only how painfully.

"Try your story again, boy." Aristide growled out as he loomed overhead.

Malcolm audibly gulped and ran the back of his wrist across his forehead, tangling the loose black hair. "She got tired and came home with me for a bit. We tried to call you, but she was really tired and fell asleep bef...," he paused. His story officially unraveled a second time. Amell glared at him again with renewed distrust.

"So, I assume you are not the one who is calling her nightly?

Leandra shot up out from behind the sofa, reaching down to the floor to gather her person effects. Stumbling over a pillow, she righted herself in front of the open door that was presently filled by her very incensed father.

"She was just over for a little bit. She was tired so she took a nap on the s-"

A small sound boomed. The little packed slipped out of it's tucked away location and dropped to the floor between Leandra's white flip-flop clad feet.

The little purple package sat between her inward pointed feet, innocently resting on the carpet. The little, unopened package that had three sets of horrified eyes on it.

Leandra slowly drew her light eyes up to meet her father's. His face hard, he moved to the side and sharply pointed to his truck. Dropping her head in resignation, her dark hair falling over her face, she dejectedly began to plod forward. Doom and bile threatening to rise.

Aristide watched her move forward, noting that as she crossed the threshold, the fingers of two young near-lovers brushed. Not this day.

She sat with her back forced into the corner of the bench seat and the door. Carefully guarding herself from any potential verbal confrontation. Tears she did not intend to fall slid down regardless. He really could not blame her. He was fully aware that she had been spending time with the boy. Malcolm was a nice enough boy, from what the recently moved in family had been able to reveal. Aristide had just sincerely hoped she would have put more thought to waiting. Perhaps now, she will. He truly did not want to lose his little girl. Hopefully Gamlin will not pick up his elder sister's recent habits.

He glanced over to his daughter that so desperately tried to let her wings unfurl. "Hun, Im glad you two at least thought of protection. Good on you both," he sighed deeply. She turned her head and sniffed loudly, regarding the strange statement her father uttered. He grasped the wheel tightly to make a turn as she slowly nodded once.

They drove along the empty night street in silence. Him forcing himself to focus on the road, her staring out the window with her forehead pressed against the glass, head lulling along with the lurching of the truck.

Reaching over, Aristide flicked on the radio, catching Leandra's attention enough to glance over. He pressed a couple buttons before settling on his news talk station of choice. The radio hosts laughed and joked about New Year's resolutions and how they intend to break them. One host laugh by stating that she is already breaking her resolution by making a resolution to not make one. After a pause the radio erupted with laughter asking about the logistics and potential paradoxes.

"Okay, okay, here we go boys," the female host started, a smile could be heard on her voice. "All right, we have the first baby born this year! I swear, the women must time these things!" She laughed, jokingly.

"I hear it's actually very competitive," one of the male hosts added.

An different male host laughed, "Okay, how do they go about these things. Does a circle of women get together and decide that they are all going to conceive at the same time? Okay girls, whoever shoots out the little bugger first on Dragon Age 01 gets a chocolate Häagen-Dazs," the host quipped in a sing-song parody of a female voice.

Aristide groaned at the inappropriate timing of the conversation. Rub it is that his daughter almost- never mind. She is a smart girl. The girl in question broke a small laugh as she listened.

"That's precisely how it goes," The female hostess continued. "Okay, one second, let me finish this. They apparently take time zone into consideration, too. This is kind of exciting! Whoever had a child closest to 0:00:01 Dragon Age wins!"

"Aww! A cute little thing, " the female host cooed.

Thus, the first child of the Dragon Age was born; the first widely known member of the 'elvhan'. At first the child's distinctive features were overlooked as anomalous and unique. The baby boy had excessively smooth skin; women lamented with fond jealousy. His face held the most unique features, a long, straight nose that sloped directly from his little brow, a long, graceful neck, defined, sharp lips, and large, shining eyes. The child was praised, lauded as a potential model in his future years. Over the next few months, children were being born with these unusual features, regardless of particular ethnic background. The elvhan children maintained their parent's skin pigmentation and eye color, but the hair was always feather light and completely straight. The elvhan were the offspring of otherwise, completely normal families. The parents were in no way remarkable. Shared features across the world that transcended ethnic heritage soon became a point of worry. A strange global set of defects only recently making itself known.

As time would march on, the elf children would become strange people, quickly removed from normal society. In many countries, they were deeply shunned and cast away as defects. They were commonly thought of as being mentally inferior to those of a standard human birth. In the country of Tevinter, the racism escalated to astounding proportions. Segregation, beatings and forced labor for the discarded children became common. Eventually, all Tevinter elvhan children were rounded up and placed in concentration camps. This lasted for a few years until it became known that many were fleeing to the island of Seheron and some, further out to the shaded forests. As the first elvhan child grew into manhood, the secondary, discomforting beauty the children developed. With that realization of beauty, and the perceived inferiority, it soon reached a new height of hatred. Newly discovered children were separated from their families immediately and sold for a high price. Some of these elf children grew into craftsmen, some reaching nothing more than slaves, other, fell as low as body slaves. Thoughts on elvhan inferiority, and general xenophobia spread slowly, like a sickness, across all of Thedas.

Other children were born as well, children that were of a stockier frame. These children tended to go undetected for much of their childhood. They only becoming detected later on in life, when they began to mature and fill in a semblance of their adult features, they would become known as dwarfs. Different from the previous incarnation of the term, these children grew into adults a few heads shorter than a normal human, with larger, more bold features. Children who could not understand what a 'dream' was. Many could still pass as humans with little worry for the sigma that was rapidly forming.

Then, horror struck. Unexplainable events. Fire with no direct cause. Hypothermia on a warm day. Sudden vertigo and disorientation across entire groups of people. Odd hieroglyphics appearing on the ground that no one could safely cross. Strange shifting and pulling of air and spirit. The world was going to madness. The only ones who stood any chance was the old order of the Knights Templar. Men and women with specialized training and an odd ability to dispel the mysterious events. A order of men and women of which were rumored to employ harsh tactics to root out the central cause. The cause being people cursed with strange and dangerous abilities. People they called mages.

Leandra's room phone rang loudly deep into the night. Her heart raced as she was rapidly pulled from her dream. She blearily groped at her night stand, tugging the fuzzy lamp's chain on and slamming her down on the pink corded phone. "H-Hello?" She stammered out, rubbing her eyes.

"Lea... Leandra?" The voice sounded so small, quavering.

"Malcolm?" She dropped her hand from her face, "Are you okay? Did something happen?"

"I-I donno," he sobbed quietly into the receiver. "Mom and dad, something, something happened," he hiccuped.

Leandra jumped up to her knees and pressed into the phone. "What happened?" Worry and fright welled into her as she pressed.

"A fire started. I donno how," Malcolm broke down, sobs muffled by the receiver pressing into his hair. "I-I think I did it."

"How is that even possible, you would know. Wouldn't you?" Leandra whispered harshly into the phone. she has heard of people sleep walking and ended up in odd places doing odd things, but her boyfriend was not prone to such actions. If he was, he had said nothing to her of it.

"Leandra, I had a dream. there was this great beast. It looked like a boss in some RPG. It wanted to give me something," Malcolm sniffed loudly into the phone.

"What?"

"In the dream, it said that it knew how I could convince your dad to let us be together. I got really mad at it. I yelled at it," he sobbed out a broken laugh. "I yelled at it that nothing worth having should be given. I got really mad in the dream, everything got hot and orange and fuzzy. Then, I shot fire out of my hands!" The last sentence was in a strangled rasp.

Leandra softly whispered words of encouragement, not entirely knowing what to make of the developing situation.

"I woke up. My entire room was in flames. I had to get out through the window. By the time the firefighters came," his voice trailed off, wracked once again with sobs broken with a mournful cry.

"Where are you?" Leandra barked sternly into the phone.

"I'm at the 7-11, on Geary. I'm on a pay phone." his voice softened and trailed as if looking around for a street name around him.

"Okay, Mal, you stay there. I'll meet up with you soon." She whispered a small comfort and a goodbye. Slamming the phone, she tore through her room, dumping everything in her backpack onto the floor. She threw the bag, open wide, into her bed and pulled the dresser drawer completely from the dresser. "FUCK!" She screeched loudly as the contents of the drawer flew out onto the floor. Grabbing hands fulls of clothing, she throws them at the gaping backpack. Some undergarments, from the top drawer. She throws open the middle drawer and grabs a handful of shirts. Throwing the final dresser drawer to the floor, she picks up a couple changes of jeans and forces all the fabric into the bag, zipper straining at the seams.

She flails about the small room momentarily, desperately attempting to gather her thoughts through the multitude of racing tasks she must perform before leaving. She turns quickly, throwing her hand out and slamming her knuckles into the corner of her nightstand. She shrieks in pain, tears welling up in her steel blue eyes as she shoved her hand tightly between her thighs. Arching her back down, she squeaks a small sob. She raises her head, mentally guarding herself.

Aristide shoved open her door, his anger near peaking. "What are you doi-" His voice caught in this throat. "Leandra?" He stared wide eyed as she threw her flip flops back on and hefted her now filled backpack in a wide arch and over her shoulder. She eyed her father silently as she dipped underneath his arm and bolted for the living room.

Her breath coming in ragged pants, heart racing, she ripped open the china cabinet and slammed her hand through the opening of a large pitcher, extricating a sizable wad of money.

Aristide tore down the hallway, legs finally following his bidding. No, no, no! he mentally screamed. I'm not losing my little girl! He pitched himself forward, feebly reaching to grasp at her backpack. She unwittingly dodges out of the way and jogs to the door.

"LEANDRA AMELL!" Her father screams into the cold night.

"Sorry, daddy, Malcolm needs me," she whispers out, before turning and running out the door.

Aristide pulled his coat from the wall, tearing the small hook out with his. Paying no heed, he jammed his hands into the coat pocket and held up his truck keys. Locating the correct one with quivering hands, he thrust it into the truck door's keyhole, scarring the paint. He threw a look over his shoulder, attempting to keep track of his daughter.

Leandra ignored the world around her, the only goal she held onto clarifying her environment into a single path. She rounded off the main streets and wove between the homes and through small alleyways.

He bit back a gasp as he hefted himself into the large vehicle and jammed the keys in, aggressively turning the engine. Throwing his arm across the seat, he looked blindly out as he smoked out of the driveway, tired shrieking in protest as he sharply angled into a turn. He drove to where he guess she would exit from the labyrinthine paths behind the homes. She was not there. He drove around another potential direction, only to end no better for it. After a half hour, he pulled his truck along side of the road and slammed his forehead into his hands that still grasped the top of the steering wheel and sobbed.

Leandra rounded the corner to see the bright lights of the convenience store. Malcolm, clad only in his nightclothes and a oversized black hoodie, we waited, shivering. Her breath caught as a visible puff as she sighed in relief. Holding her backpack tight against her body, she trotted over to the boy.

Malcolm heard her slapping footsteps approaching, causing him to quickly raise his head. He sighed heavily and ran to meet her in the parking lot. Reaching out, he clutched his hands around her arms and pulled her close, nuzzling into the crook of her neck.

Leandra closed her wet eyes tight as she held her young love. She breathed in deeply, taking in the smell of cold sweat and smoke.

"Leandra," he whispered into her dark hair, "I..."

She pulled at his shoulders, pulling him away just enough to be able to look into his reddened eyes. "What is it?"

"I know what happened. I heard some stuff over the news while I waited." He lowered his head slowly, "I think, I accidentally killed my parents."

Leandra shook him lightly, "Don't say that! It's stupid and impossible! How when you were asleep?" She demanded.

The cashier in the store took notice of the two teens in the middle of his parking lot at 5 in the morning. with all else silent, their conversation was easy to eavesdrop upon. He held the couple in his gaze as he reached for the phone, looking away only long enough to finger in the phone number mentioned on the news. The phone rang twice before he was greeted by a stern, but weary male voice groaning out, "Kirkwall Circle of Magi, how may I help you?"

"Lea," he whispered harshly, holding her tight, "I'm a mage..."


	2. Call Me, Call Me, Anytime

TWO

He knew them all by name. The man in the corner was Walter. He used to own a powerful dot com back before the bust; now he spends his time on The Avenue in Darktown. The woman walking around in a small circle just inside the door was a runaway. She had a story, he could tell just from the haunted look in her eyes, but he would not ask; it was her decision to initiate the conversation. The teen leaning defiantly against the wall that held the "No Loitering" sign was a hobo. He didn't like the realities of life, so he severed himself from it and took to the rail system. A lifestyle made difficult by the slow and steady decline in popularity of the railroad. The there was Anders; former military medic, Fereldon. He was Court Marshaled after his defection was discovered had been loosely on the run ever since. The Free Marches Military Police and the Fereldon government were very interested in getting him back. Compound this fugitive status with being actively hunted down by the United Templars (UniT) world wide for the simple fact that he happened to have a pituitary gland that introduced him to emissions of the standard, embarrassing fare, and the fiery mage kind. That really only could be described as '_Scheißleben'_.

Anders hefted his olive field jacket over his shoulders and shifted his neck, lazily trying to free his tied back hair from the collar. He glanced around the small clinic, noting the few remaining patients as he tugged at his pony tail absently. He had become unused to staying at the small clinic for such long stretched after he came into the acquaintance of Hawke. The warrior was always pushing open the glass doors at all hours with the most random of goals. From killing a dragon, to returning a lost toe, Hawk was your man. Anders cringed when he gave a passing thought to what the inside of Hawke's bags must be like. Luckily, his sister, Bethany insisted on saving every plastic bag and stuffing them into her brother's bags when he was preoccupied. Inadvertently, she lined the aforementioned bags with them... small blessing for the man who gratefully received his bottle of aged wine.

Stretching loudly, Anders popped his back, lifting his arms well over his head. The runaway girl's attention was caught to which she offered a small, salacious smirk. Anders watched the girl with mild confusion as he slowly brought his arms down. With a wild flush, he realized his t-shirt rode up, exposing his rather malnourished stomach. He tugged the white shit down, hoping that his poorly fitted jeans didn't also conspired against him. The girl's glance still lingered on him, eyes dropping briefly, confirming his suspicion. She thoughtfully tapped her fingertip to her lips. Snapping her hand down, she tightened her hand at her underarm on her backpack strap and began to walk over, slowly and meticulously, as a cat stalking forward. Anders blinked at her expression. Poor girl, he thought as he turned his head in feigned distraction and lifted his hand that sported a simple, silver ring. He hoped the symbol was well enough known that he would not have to explain further.

The girl glanced from his eyes down to where he indicated. "Bloody fuck, figures. Not open, then?" Anders turned to the girl and shook his head slowly. She hands dropped from her backpack strap unceremoniously and flopped to her thighs. Anders bit his lip offering the girl a apologetic shrug. The girl grunted turned away quickly, the quarry proving to be most evasive.

She threw open the glass doors and stepped out into the night. Anders sighed and draw his field jacket closer. He honestly hoped she had a fair place to go. Though it was hard to maintain the accounts, he wanted people to feel safe in his little clinic.

The clinic, itself, was about as mundane as it could get. Everything was contained in one large room. There were cabinets in the back, brimming with black market supplies. He was well stocked with gauze, antibiotics, creams and ointments of various mixes, as well as a small stash of morphine. He never asked where they came from. The name of the game was "Plausible Deniability." While these were helpful, he was able to perform much of the healing necessary himself. He stretched his hands out, splaying his fingers and a liquid blue flowed and glowed around him. Spirit magic was a potent talent. Many simple things he could tend to himself. Other things, more serious issues, he had a connection in Bethany. She went to Kirkwall State University and could bring in patients to see the students. Though not ideal, he figured it was better than allowing the denizens of the shaded underbelly to languish.

Technically, he was operating well under the law. A deserter, an unregistered mage operating an unlicensed clinic via stolen medical supplies. There were so many issues revolving around the little building that he frequently questioned the logistics and the sheer magnitude of potential trouble. But this was Darktown district. No one cared for the people here. Walk down Market far enough and you disappear.

His thoughts turned heavy as he sat down on an old, creaking office chair. The arms torn and stiffened, yellow foam leaked out, framing the smooth, worn metal that should have remained underneath. He looked over at the hours old cup of coffee. His finger ran the rim of the handle, mind in thought, before he clutched it tightly and brought it over. Hawke had picked it up for him at one point, siting that 'styrofoam cups are bad for you' and it costs money to keep supplied. Obviously, drilled into his head by the social pariah Merrill. Smirking, he turned the black mug around and gazed at the red and white N7 logo. Hawke's current video game obsession. How he loved the voice actress. Glancing down, he noted that the creamer had separated and sat in the center of the mug like a tiny wisp. Anders hummed to himself before gulping down the last bit of cold coffee.

Placing the coffee ringed mug down with one hand, he fumbled with the other, taking interest in the manila folder that sat on top of the file. He flipped open the folder and looked to the profile sheet clipped to the front. The results he had been looking for had finally come in. He dropped the folder down and tore into a large, tan envelope that sat near. He tugged out the sheet and shook it so it stood stiff in his hand. Honey eyes gazing across the text, he sighed heavily. He let the paper drop soundlessly to his desk and he rested his forehead on his finger tips. Secretly, he wished she would not come in for the results. His heart raced as he thought ahead to what will, inevitably play out. Maker, he hated bad news.

He grunted and pushed the folder into a small file drawer. His only option to look to the present. Cats. He will look at cats. The internet loves cats. He grabbed at his abused computer mouse and scraped at the thick coat of grime which had accumulated over time. He made a small, disgusted sound as he shook the material free and dropped the mouse to the wrinkled piece of paper he used as a mouse pad. Popping open his favorite silly cat picture site, he blithely numbed his mind and scrolled though. Anders fell into his standard computing posture, his back slumped forward, his mouth covered and resting in his hand. He was slightly amused that he has been told that his posture, for computer browsing, was the same regardless of what he was looking at, be it silly captioned cat pictures, or the latest scientific reports. Why could this trick not come into play when he had a depressing number of cards in his hand?

He grumbled quietly as his hand fingers tapped noisily across the coffee stained keyboard as he directed to facebook. Probably not the wisest of decisions to have such a public page, but Hawke had made it for him and insisted he looked at it, if nothing else. Anders quickly learned it was primarily so his boyfriend could sent his stupid game invites. Once the rest of his group caught wind of his account, he soon had a time line filled with posts. From inspirational images from Sebastian and group requests for the betterment of animals from Merrill, to embarrassing, but lovely visions of well muscled, oiled men from Isabela. His eyes went wide at the current image of a gorgeous, wanton, man sitting nude in a kitchen sink. He left clicked and dragged the image to his desktop... for... research. He glanced down at the comments.  
Isabela: Who loves you Andy?  
Merrill: Why is he in the sink? That's just silly. :P  
Alex Hawke: What's wrong with you man, get out the damn sink! I keep my dishes there!  
Merrill: Alex Hawke, you arn't supposed to keep dishes in the sink. That's what cabinets are for.  
Isabela: That's right, Kitten. lol  
Varric Tethras: Another one for the fics...  
Sebastian Vael: OMM Remind me to never check Facebook on my phone in the chantry again...

"I HATE MY JOB BECAUSE I LOVE GAY PORN!" Isabela's devilishly joyful voice blared across the sparsely populated clinic, echoing off the worn, Blessed Age linoleum and bouncing maliciously against the stainless steel tables. The phrase repeated ceaselessly in a tinny, crescendo. Honey colored eyes stared in brief startled shock as pink warmth flooded his face. He glanced over to the plastic chairs housed along the side wall in the waiting area. Walter looked wide-eyed at the healer. Eventually he snorted a loud, short laugh.

"My phone!" He groped into his coat pocket and extracted the touch screen, only to have the plastic guard panel flop off and clatter to the floor, immediately followed by the rest of the phone. The vibrations causing it to rattle around on the ground and dance just out of his fingertips. The phone skittered along screaming his joy for male encounters in a taunting female voice. Shuffling forward while reaching for the small phone, his boot struck first with a stumble pitching both the phone and himself forward with a loud, resounding pop. With a frustrated grunt, he slammed his large hand over it and scraped it along the floor closer. He rolled over on his side and grabbed for his injured knee as he glowered at the small, dirty screen.

Chant Thumper, the screen read. He jabbed his thumb into the hard glass and growled, "WHAT!"

A static filled silence greeted him. Anders heard a quiet and distant grunt of discomfort. And a different voice give a short laugh.

"Aye, um, Anders, is everything okay?" Sebastian inquired, voice muffled and flattened over the phone. Anders truly hated it when Sebastian called. Of all the damn people for Hawke to bum a call off of, why must it be the guy with the near indecipherable accent. He had no problems following his thick brogue when he was in person, but the compression cause the subtle tones and whispered pronunciations to entirely disappear and heavy endings to become further pronounced. Why him, Hawke, really?

Anders gripped his phone hard against his ear and rolled over onto his back, allowing his legs to splay out in front of him. He would have to be mindful, he ended up under one of the metal tables...again.

"Yeah, fine. _Autsch_, shit." Anders grunted and he worried his bruised knee.

"Yeh sound far from fine, from what Ah'm hearing."

"Mmm, kiss it and make it better by reminding me to never let Isabela 'look at my phone,' Anders groused and he strung his blunt fingers through his hair. His fingers stopping at the elastic band, Anders dropped his head to his hand, allowing them to offer some cushion from the floor.

Sebastian flustered briefly. Ah, how he loved messing with him. Any hint of kissing or worse, caused the reformed libertine to blush and stumble furiously. It was especially great when himself and the temporary shit-listed Isabela teamed up, trying to see which of the two could cause the dignitary's face to match his red hair.

The sound of tapping plastic and a finger brushing across the receiver played out before Anders heard the familiar voice, "Eh, baby!"

Anders could not stop the smile from appearing across his face. He reached up and poked at a dark spot under the table as a slight blush renewed. "Mister Alexander Hawke, what is it you want?" His fondness fought for control of his voice over the attempted irritation.

He could hear the slight, appreciative grumble, "You baby. What are you wearing?"

He heard Isabela squeal, muffled in the background. Such a nosey fag-hag, Anders smirked. She couldn't blame her really, at least not for that. Many other things, yes. Alexander had a delicious, soft rolling South Fereldon accent. Damned if some words were a bit difficult to pick up over the phone, Anders could listen to Alex repeat himself all damn day. And oh, Maker, that man filled up a t-shirt in all the right ways. The black haired warrior had a stomach that left the most delicious shadows and sleeve filling biceps that just... UGH! "I'm sorry, what?"

"Honestly, Anders, did you catch any of that?" So much for listening to him all day.

"Um, biceps?" Anders floundered, making an apologetic expression that would obviously not carry over.

"No, Anders, there was not a single bicep to be had," Alex chuckled softly and Isabela squealed again. Sebastian grumbled about dirty talk on his minuets. Hawke gave a chortled apology and cleared his throat before giggling, "Yeah, so, Babe, um, we have a job from Craig's List."

"Honestly, Craig's List? Can't we have some more reliable means to find odd jobs? Remember the hot dog vendor?"

"Ugh," Alex made a distasteful noise as he recalled the specified scenario. "Okay, really, how was I supposed to know the first rule was to not turn the lights on before hitting the grinder on?"

"Oh, you _knew_, Hawke," Anders smashed his finger to the underside of a dent in the table and held it there.

"Anyway," Alex diverted quickly. "We have a job. Some dwarf is looking for his lost shipments. The email is entitled... For the love of," Alex grunted as he slammed the print out against his thigh in exasperation. "Bait and Switch. Really? What the hell happened to subtlety?"

"What the hell happened to you reading an entire email before accepting?" Anders glared sidelong to the phone in amusement. He smirked as he let his arm fall to his chest, forsaking the recalcitrant dent.

"Babe, you know I have an attention span of fifteen seconds. I kinda read it over... TL;DR about three sentences in and jumped to the part where they stop begging and life storying and get to the actual request and prezzies!" There was a brief pause followed by an audible, childish grin. "Prezzies are the best."

Anders groaned loudly. "All right, _Kawke_, who are you taking into this potential snuff film?"

Anders heard the phone mic slide across Alex's ear in a gesture he guessed was Alex looking back at his group. After some mumbled conversation, he returned. "Yeah, I wanted to bring Beth along, but she has classes today, I forgot. Avaline got called in to work, Merrill is, I donno, doing some commune hippy shit," he gave a small puff of a laugh, "and Varric is busy setting up the Undergrounds run. So, it looks like it's you, me, Issy and Seb. Think you can meet us at the Hanged Man?"

Anders ineffectually nodded, "'_Türlich_."

"Oh, I love it when you talk Anderfellian." Alexander growled salaciously.

"_Tatsächlich_?" Anders taunted.

"Shut up and meet us there before I make Seb blush more," he paused. " And Issy is literally about to explode."

"Literally, or figuratively?" Anders lightly chided.

"Actually, I'm fairly certain literally... not pleasant."

Anders laughed and smiled brightly. How he loved messing with Isabela and Sebastian. "Bis Bald." Anders laughed loudly as he heard a wanton groan from his boyfriend just before hanging up.

Anders sat up, quickly forgetting his previous mental warning and slammed his head into the table's underside. Yelping in pain, he flopped back, holding his forehead. He groaned and rolled over to his stomach and slowly crawled, backing out from under the table. He briefly stopped to snatch his phone and shoved it in his pocket. He was still quite angry with the hunk of plastic. Isabela too.

He scooted along the floor and paused again, reaching for his phone. He thumbed out a quick message, the keys singing with electronic beeps as it vibrated in his hands. His thumbs moved quickly across the little glowing screen as a small, malicious grin played across his face. Satisfied, he dropped the phone in his coat pocket again and buttoned the top before pushing himself up to stand at his full six foot height.

He offered a shy smile to Walter as the man stood up. Walter laughed mildly. "Last one here," the former CEO noted.

Anders ducked his head slowly, "Hey, Walter, I gotta close the clinic for a few hours."

Walter nodded and collected up his coat from the plastic seat behind him. Large coat bundled tightly in his arms, he walked close to the blond and affectionately placed his rough hand on Ander's shoulders. "You're a good man, Healer." Drawing his hand away, he inquired, "Mind of I stay near for when you come back? I am still waiting for word from my family."

Anders had been friends with Walter for a good numbers of years now. He trusted him a good deal, enough so that he allowed the man to use his clinic's address and his personal phone for messages. He was hopeful that his family would respond to his message. After the bust, Walter had lost everything. After his multi-billion dollar business faltered, it was impossible to make ends meet. his debt piled up and eventually he completely drowned. He had been imploring his eldest child to help him with a place to stay. He only needed some time to get back into the job market and back on his feet properly, and he would be able to help and eventually strike out on his own again.

Anders nodded sharply. "Sure, no problem. I'll keep an eye on my phone for you. Mind keeping the fort held for a few hours?"

Walter smiled brightly, "Not a problem, healer."

Across town, Sebastian politely excused himself from the conversation he was currently engaged in. Elthina was addressing various tasks that she was requesting of the near-monk. He held up his hand placatingly as he pulled his vibrating phone from his pocket. The elder priestess nodded and clasped her hands together in front of herself.

Sebastian turned around briefly to read over the text and grinned wide.

From: Anders  
Date: DGN 9:31/2/12 Tuesday  
Subject:  
Message:  
ISABELA IS A BITCH :(


	3. Evanescent Blue

She wore the lilac suit again. The suit with the silver buttons across the front and the pencil skirt. Green eyes stared blearily at her nude colored pumps. They were rather unusual. They were not the normal pointed toe oddities that normally graced the feet of masochistic women. These shoes had a dainty rounded toe box and a little bow adorning the top. They made her feet appear smaller. She had asked him a question. His more logical mind suggested that the offered question had little to do with the psychologist's foot attire.  
She was getting irritated. Her foot gave minute twitches in a subconscious pattern. One lived longer the more they noticed subtle shifts in body language. She was trying to hide her ire. He understood full well her frustration. The young elf knew he was hard to work with. He also, did not much care. He was here because they felt that his post traumatic stress could be alleviated with a pair of legs and a pillow to sob like a bitch into. No, no thank you. You can all fuck off.

"Fenris, tell me, why do you wear black?"

His gaze shifted up under a delicate white fringe. So many words rolled through his mind. His mastery of Common had progressed nicely since he gained his freedom. He found that his mind was regarding the flat language much differently now. Instead of formulating a sentence in his native Arcanum, he was thinking directly in Common. He vaguely wondered when that had occurred. Ah, yes, the blond shrink.

"Because I can."

"Why not a sand color, or perhaps a nice, deep green?" She offered gesturing down as if drawing the color upon him with her pen.

He stared at her blankly. Thousands and thousands of sovereigns worth of student debt lead her to make suggestions as to what color would look nice on him. He sighed, knowing exactly what she meant. It was base and shallow at best. The silent suggestion was an inquiry onto his sense of self. One wears black exclusively if they are troubled, feel ostracized, or wish to remain on the social outskirts. Perhaps that was partially true. Not entirely.

Fenris did feel as an outsider frequently, but that was not the primary consideration. He found himself to be fond of the value. It was dark, contrasted well with his physical appearance and it did not appear dirty quite as quickly. The idea that an individual is the sum of their physical being is a notion steeped in ideological folly. While some outward appearances can realize themselves, more often than not, it was a reflection of who the person desired to be preconceived as. The clothing was simply a short-hand vehicle, conveying interests and tastes much more than the innermost individual. When the clothing is shucked aside for the day, a person does not lose their identity. It is in that moment when a person is truly who they are. No symbols, no suggestions, or colors to influence mood and tone; just body and soul. He is who he has created himself to be. His clothing simply conveyed that he liked black and offered a vague suggestion as to his interests.

"Honestly, I do not care. I have clothing. That is well enough for me." Fenris groused, crossing his legs and arms staring at a potted plant in the corner defiantly.

"You're defensive." She set her hands flat against his folio, bring her feet together sharply. A dance they played often. She would badger until the elf felt uncomfortable. He would wall up and refuse to speak on anything of weight for the rest of the evening.

She irritated him. Why they thought making him attend biweekly meetings with a creation mage with a PHD to talk about his 'feelings' was a good idea was completely lost on him. The elf thought himself quite capable of redressing his own feelings privately. He was perfectly fine on his own. He did not feel the need to allow a person he obviously did not trust into his personal life. He had been trying for weeks now. He shifted on the sofa uncomfortably, his hands rubbing thoughtlessly across the raised ridges in his flesh.

She tried a different direction, "What do you do in your spare time, then?"

Think. Drink. Sleep. Throw things. "I choreograph dance routines around my house."

"Really, do tell."

He looked at her blankly, honestly she could not have believed that. "I think, drink, look at tumblr, mix music, and try my very best to fill up my two terabyte hard drive with porn," Fenris stated mordantly.

The doctor coughed behind her hand. If she asked what kind of porn, he was leaving. He is under no circumstance going to be discussing his kinks with her. She sighed quietly and scribed something into his portfolio. Returning to look at Fenris, she questioned, "Nothing out of the ordinary I assume."

Fenris drummed his fingers across this black jeans. It was vague enough, he would stay. Much to his satisfaction, he would be able to end this uncomfortable line of interrogation quickly. "No, nothing particularly unusual."

The two sat quietly for a moment too stretched. She wanted to press further, but she knew well her current limits. She would not receive any information in regards to his past, his 'body modifications,' or his sexual proclivities. Offering a quick, practiced smile, the blond doctor stood up and closed the cover of his documentation. She picked up the arm of her delicate gold framed glasses and tucked them into her hair neatly. Fenris gave a relieved breath before following to a standing position. Placing the folder at the small of her back, she stretched out her hand expectantly. Fenris glanced down, then sighed again, reluctantly taking her grip. She squeezed much harder then necessary, irritating the flesh around the embedded pathways. Sneering, Fenris snatched back his hand with a sharp glare.

"Ah, sorry," she coughed out. "Well, I can see that this session is at its end. I have you scheduled for the normal time on the 25th. Will you be able to make it?" The inquired gave a grunt and nodded his acceptance. Turning without regard to his doctor, he marched heavily to the door opened the door widely. The blond jumped back and grasped the door edge before it slammed into her. Recovering, she once again hid her displeasure behind a small smile. She opened her mouth to wish her patient 'fare well,' but the young elf had, as always made it out the door and down the hall.

Fenris swung open the glass double doors of the therapist's office. The season was on the precipice of change, the hours difficult to discern. Reaching into his backpack, he rummaged around and drew out his phone. It was an hour earlier than he had assumed. Grabbing his bag up, he shuffled to the side of the entrance, and half sat on a nearby bench. Opening the menu for his email, he grumbled mentally at how he wanted one of those nice smart phones like everyone else in the damn world had. The nice phones, however, had proven multiple times that he would never be able to keep one due to the inherent radioactivity of his lyrium pathways.

Fenris' jaw set tight. It was not that he was reluctant to speak of his past to the therapist, it was more that he was literally unable. He could no easier talk about long forgotten memories than he could give his knowledge of her life. Effectively, it was a different person. His life before that was completely ensconced in a cloud of amnesia. Trading memories for power was a decision that was made for him.

He was in agonizing pain; frightened and bound to a metal table. His body convulsed, foreign objects stabbing under his skin. His skin stretching and sliding over the many protrusions. Danarius began shouting. Not at him, but at others. People covered waist high in blood. His? He felt a pressure on his sternum, keeping him down. The pressure released as Danarius turned and shouted at one of the other gore covered people. Blurry and shadowed. Fenris raised his head. Something was wrong. He had to stop the pain. His ears boomed with shouts again. "-Anesthesia wore- middle of the fucking proce-" His body trembled uncontrollably, looking down, he could make little sense of what he saw. His heart pounded. Clear, red smeared tubes inlaid into bloody gashes that covered his entire body. Tubes that had not been set in place jutted out at odd angles. Some places were stitched loosely, black thread straining as he moved. He could not move his jaw. It felt splinted. Danarius swore loudly, grasping Fenris by the shoulders and forcing him down. Danarius, he was familiar and oddly comforting. The pain struck anew. His hands splayed and shook, he felt unstable. He was sliding along the pooled blood underneath his jerking body. "Continue the procedure. I'll hold him down." Blurred images, pain, cutting, biting fingers, and object being forced under his skin. Shock enveloped him, a blood covered hand painting gently down his cheek and the world became a sparkling black.

He had long become used to the discomforting feeling of the tubes sliding as he moved. Some movements caused great discomfort, his movement halted by an odd lifting of the tubes. The objects were thin and soft enough that a majority of his movements were relatively unhindered. Other movement, such has lifting his arms up fully, necessitated a rolling shift to set the tubes to a proper angle. This gave him an odd appearance of grace, his movements controlled, rolling, and sweeping.

The tubes themselves were more the oddity. The formed a curving, curling network across his entire body. He had been told that the tubes were lined with a micro-thin layer of lyrium, bonded to the tubes by trace metals. The tubes entered his heart by a small, implanted valve. As his heart beat harder, the blood would force open the ridged valve, and introduce a small amount of blood into the the first, natural section of the network. The extra natural valve acted as a fuse. Inside the natural valve, the trace of blood would react with a small bit of the lyrium. Upon the next heartbeat, the natural valve would open and flood the system with the catalytic gas it formed and the chain reaction would begin. Starting form the source of the valve, the tubes would become luminescent, drenching the surrounding tissue with it's radioactive properties.

On a molecular level, he theoretically flew apart, his cells vibrating minutely. This vibration, loosened his physical form, causing him to glow a cold blue. More importantly, it allowed him to move between molecules. It allowed him to pass the radiation to the objects, causing them to also vibrate. If he moved slowly, he was able to pass through solid metal. If he goes too quickly, it would be as normal, the object hard and unrelenting.

Performing this on organic flesh was a dangerous prospect. Effective, and very dangerous. He would easily pass through flesh. The real issue was control on his part. He had to ensure his body did not move while entrenched in another. One twitch, he would send already excited molecules flying, rendering the individual to an incomplete genetic mush.

Fenris sighed. Leave it to the ugly Nokia to survive the radioactivity and the heat it produced without fail. He was fairly sure the ugly little phone could take a direct hit by a bullet and still trill whenever he got a call. Scrolling through his messages, he noted an email from the strange dwarf Anso.

Someone had taken the job.

Fenris gave a small smirk. Perhaps this day was not going to be a total waste.

Invigorated by the prospect of something going his way, he stood up, shoving his phone in his pocket, and grabbed a handful of his backpack. He though of how he was going to go about the next stage of him plan as he slung his backpack over his shoulders. Fenris tugged down his black t-shirt and started his trek home. This day, he preferred to walk home rather then rely on public transportation. For one, he felt he had been sitting too long. and he was feeling restless; for two, he did not really want to deal with the multitude of weird people he usually saw. Hmm, Fenris, calling other people weird. Kirkwall was truly insane.

He had a long walk a head of him. the therapist he visited was suggested to him by the community clinic he visited a few times. The man who operated the hole-in-the-wall clinic always refused payment, simply stating that he had other means of keeping the place operational. His looked across the street at the little clinic and watched as two men exited. One of the pair was the good doctor, he recalled, the other was a rather large black haired man. He watched as he neared them along his side of the street. The doctor smiled and said something to the other before tiptoeing up to kiss the other. He raised an eyebrow briefly as the lover's kiss became progressively heated. Embarrassed at the mere suggestion of being caught gawking, Fenris dropped his head to stare at his scuffed boots and pushed on forward.

He continued along, stopping briefly at Lirene's Corner Market to pick up a soda. Upon entering, he immediately bumped into a woman. The small market was packed full of people. Fenris groaned and ran his fingers through his white hair. Dropping his hand against his thigh, drumming out a small beat. He noted with surprise that the people seems to be merely milling about, the woman at the till seems to be staring, bored.

He wove his way passed a throng of women, giving an irritated sound as a child with a slime covered face leaned across the cooler door. The day was warm, he really wondered id the cola was really worth the effort. He looked around the small shop again. "May as well, got in this far," he muttered.

Fenris stood in front of the dirty child, silently glaring. The child blinked, vaguely wondering why there was a strange looking man standing in front of her. Fenris sighed with exasperation and pointed to the glass door behind her with a thrust of his finger. This child obviously did not understand anything passive. The child stared at his fingertip blankly. "MOVE!" The elf shouted. The child squealed and skittered to his unkempt mother, clashing onto her legging clad thigh. The mother absently patted the boy's head as he babbled about the weird guy with white hair.

Groaning, he pulled open the glass door and grabbed out a plastic bottle of cola. The cold air issuing forth from the cooler felt nice enough that he stood in the open door a minuet or two longer than he needed, feigning indecision. Looking down at the bottle in his hand, he reached for a second, replacing the previous. Any few seconds of chill were worth it, he mused.

Dipping and dodging, he once again wove through the small crowd and approached the counter. Fenris silently pushed his drink and debit card closer to the woman at the till and looked around absently. He turned to look briefly at the cover of a men's sport magazine. Inevitably, his eyes went from her face, down her torso, first noting her taut stomach and round breasts. That was a very tiny bikini. And very shiny.

He punched his pin number into the offered panel and drummed his fingers on the counter. He briefly stole a glance at the magazine cover, oh, how shiny, while waiting for his receipt. Once offered, he took his bottle and lifted it as he tipped his head. Taking a second glance, he tossed a few coppers change into the tip jar the read "For the Lowtown Healer" and left.

Squeezing passed the throng to the door, he breathed deep. While not necessarily fresh, the air of Lowtown was at least some semblance cleaner than in the small shop. He broke open the lid of his soda and took a large pull. Dropping his arm and letting the drink dangle by his grip on the lid, he continued home.

"Home is where the heart is." A common adage one will inevitably hear at some point in life. Fenris corrects himself. Where he lives is much less a home as a reminder. As that particular abstract is far too in depth to care to explain, he refers to it simply as "house." Simple and widely understood. Fenris took a drink of his cola. Though, if he were being completely honest, even that word did not adequately convey what the building was, or rather, what he was to the building. Technically, it was more of a squat, he being the squatter. That too, required far too much conversation. Conversation was something to be avoided at all costs.

He passed into the Hightown district, noting that the streets were suddenly much different. The sidewalks glittered with mica that was incorporated into the cement. There were delicate iron gates wrapping around meticulously pruned trees. The trees were cut in such as way as to gain the maximum tiny flower yield. All the homes were brightly painted with hues of soft flowers and everyone had 2.5 children. The Kirkwall police patrolled the streets lazily, occasionally stopping by a resident and chatting briefly. The air was clean and clear, the ocean could readily be seen down some streets. The lawns well manicured, the topiaries an object of fierce competition. While Fenris lived there, he was an outsider. Women would glare as he passed, conversations went silent. He supposed it was because he wore all black, his expression neutral, a far cry from the apple pie Stepford smile. It also could be where he lived.

Stopping at the iron gate, he fumbled into his pocked for the old fashioned keyring. The home was build in the very beginning of the Blessed Age, over a century ago. The home bore of the trappings of the architectural style, the mouldings were carved and butted into delicate geometric shapes. Most edged rimmed in stark white lead paint. He glanced up as he worked the sticky iron lock. A notice was posted on the gate, just at eye level. He smirked, another condemned posting will hardly stop him from staying.

Upon entering, the gate whined loudly and slammed shut. Paying no heed to the disturbance, Fenris passed his overgrown garden, smiling at the realization that the chubby pressed stone cherub seems to have been eaten by the rather aggressive foliage. Said foliage also seems to have murdered his tree. Just as well, less bird shit.

The home was rather lovely in its prime. It was comprised of red brick that now stood mostly rotting. The first story started atop the ill-used garage. He tossed the empty soda bottle across the yard and fumbled with the aged brass door handle. A large spider bolted at the movement. The door cracked open, casting a hazy light beam that filtered though dust motes. He took a few steps, dropped his backpack on the worn dry floorboards and kicked the door closed with his heel.

Giving a long stretch and a scratch to his side, Fenris plodded up the creaking, narrow stairs, passing the first floor sitting room. He noted for the eighth time this month that he would have to scrape the dead opossum from the rug. Trudging up the last few stairs, he reach his arm through the banister and flicked wiggled the cord to his mouse. Saving a few seconds was completely worth it.

Fenris tore off his shirt and threw it at the door to his room, the black garment catching on the door knob. He walked in a small circle, recalling he neglected to check the mail. Mentally shrugging, he reasoned that he was only going to pay the water and electricty... once it went out. He yawned loudly and stroked his stomach as he turned to address his computer. She was a beastly box. The paperwork that came with the blue glowing beauty read "Tempest." For the sheer number of fans and liquid cooling, he figured it was an apt name. He smirked a, better than that one guy with the wireless connection called. "Penis Potato" Heh, dictator. Awesome.

With a few clicks, he popped open his media player and his email. Standing over the chair and leaning his weight on the desk, he glanced it over. He pulled out the chair and half sat on the edge and began replying to the email of interest.

Anso,  
Tell me once they make contact. This is a rather convoluted situation, so I want to be sure it all goes off correctly. Make no mention of me. Give that story about the shipment.

- Fenris

PS: Try not to make eye contact, you are a terrible liar. Seriously. 


End file.
